


Blessed Restlessness

by earlybloomingparentheses



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Love, M/M, Philosophy, Self-Acceptance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:52:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lewis' son comes to town, James Hathaway's unexpected feelings for him turn his life inside-out. Ghosts from his past return with a vengeance, and James finds himself in the midst of an identity crisis both sexual and existential. But as always, Lewis is there to help him muddle through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blessed Restlessness

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place somewhere around series 5, and is non-canon-compliant after that. Spoilers primarily for Life Born of Fire.
> 
> Warnings for mentions of (canonical) past suicide and homophobia.
> 
> Title from a quote by Soren Kierkegaard.

They're headed out the door of the station, on their way to interview a suspect in an unpleasant but unextraordinary homicide that’s really all wrapped up but for the red tape of proper procedure, when Lewis’ phone buzzes. He fumbles in his pocket, cursing irritably under his breath—Luddite that he is, James thinks, and hides a smile. Lewis flips open his mobile and then stops, very suddenly, in the middle of the car park.

James comes to a halt as well, looking curiously back at his inspector. A strange expression has dawned on Lewis’ face, one James swears he’s never seen there before: it’s like pain, he thinks, only not. Lewis’ brow furrows into deep ridges, and then smoothes out again. His gaze is fixed on his mobile, and his eyes are wide and dark and so clear James might think they’re swimming with sudden tears, if he didn’t know better.

“Sir?”

Lewis blinks rapidly. “Eh? Oh, yeah. Sorry.” He starts moving again, but he doesn’t put his phone back in his pocket. James wonders, feeling quite at a loss, whether he ought to be worried.

“Is everything all right, sir?” he asks tentatively as they slide into the car. 

Lewis lets out a bemused laugh, and then a grin spreads slowly across his face.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s all right. No, scratch that, it’s better than all right.”

He beams, actually _beams_ , at James, and the unexpected radiance of it arrests the sergeant’s movement towards the gearshift. James stares at him, astonished.

“My son’s coming home.”

James’ eyebrows shoot up. “From Australia?”

“That’s the one. Well, actually, he’s been in the States for awhile—never could settle down, him—haven’t seen him in years.” Lewis shakes his head, still smiling. “‘Gadding about,’ that’s what Val used to call it. We had our share of trouble over it, he and I. Used to believe it was sheer irresponsibility, I did—but now I think it’s just restlessness. And he’s a good lad, never asks to borrow money, never gotten into trouble—just can’t stand to stay in one place too long. Be good to have him back for a bit, though.”

Lewis has never spoken at this length about his family, not with the words tumbling out and grinning ear to ear. James starts the car, watching out of the corner of his eye as Lewis turns his attention back to his mobile and the text from his son. Mark, James thinks he’s called.

“Will he be staying with you?” he asks as he pulls out of the car park.

“Mm? Oh, yeah, ’course, I wouldn’t let him stay anywhere else.”

“Have to tidy up your flat a bit, sir,” James says gravely. “Remove anything…questionable.”

Lewis snorts. “Ha, ha. The only things questionable in my flat are the month-old frozen dinners. Lyn would have a fit…but Mark’s a bachelor himself, you know, nobody ever did seem to stick. He’s probably used to it.”

“In that case, sir, I believe Sainsburys has a ten-for-ten sale on mushy peas going right now.”

“You know you call me ‘sir’ twice as much when you’re being cheeky, Hathaway?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lewis rolls his eyes, then brightens. “Say, why don’t you stop by some night this week? Mark’ll be in on Friday. I _can_ cook, you know, I’ll make something nice.”

“Oh,” James says, taken aback but pleased by the invitation. “If you’re sure… 

“Yeah, ’course. I think you two’ll get on. He’s not much younger than you, you know.”

“Everyone is younger than me, sir,” Hathaway deadpans. Normally that would make Lewis chuckle, but something—perhaps a sudden rush of paternal sensibility—causes the inspector to frown.

“Sometimes I think you’re your own worst enemy, Hathaway. You’re a young man, you ought to be spending time with people your own age.” He nods decisively. “Dinner with me and Mark. Sunday. Six o’clock. No arguments. 

James flicks on the turn signal, managing to feel both touched and annoyed. “I’ll be there,” he says as he pulls the car into a long driveway. “With bells on.”

 

 

 

He shows up, bottle of wine in hand, at ten to six. Lewis opens the door, dressed in a grubby old T-shirt and looking more relaxed than James has seen him in ages.

“Come in, come in! Chicken’s in the oven. Ah, wine, thanks, I’ll take that. Mark’s in the shower—we’ve been in the garage all afternoon, messing about with the old car.”

James follows Lewis to the kitchen area, where something delicious-smelling is simmering on the stove, and resigns himself to an evening of chatter about engines and power tools. Well, he supposes he can forgive Mark their different interests if the boy puts that much of a spring in the inspector’s step.

“Hello,” says a voice from behind them, and James turns around. He stops short, blinking rapidly as if in bright sunlight. _That’s Mark?_ a voice inside him asks in disbelief.

Mark Lewis is shorter than his father and much slimmer, his hair sun-bleached and about two shades lighter to begin with. He’s got Robbie’s broad chest and shoulders, but where his father has gotten soft, he has only lean muscle. His hair is damp from the shower, and he’s wearing a red flannel shirt open over plain white T-shirt and jeans. His eyes—sparkling green, must have come from Val’s side of the family—comb over James, as James stares at him, feeling as though he’s been rooted to the floor.

“ _You’re_ Sergeant Hathaway?” Mark asks, amusement coloring his voice. His accent is reminiscent of his father’s but vaguer, the Newcastle in it blunted by his years spent living abroad. 

James nods, distantly aware that his heart is pounding in his ears.

“Well, you’re not at all what I expected when Dad said ‘thirty-four going on Oxford don,’” Mark replies with a friendly smirk, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Mark!” Lewis interjects. “Be nice.” He turns apologetically to James. “I only meant you have the brains for it, of course.” 

“Ah, he knows I don’t mean any harm,” Mark says, and winks at James. 

A flush rises fast and hot to James’ cheeks. He can feel himself growing pink, the color fanning out along his pale cheeks and to the tips of his too-large ears. His stomach swoops dizzily. Mark’s eyes are green as grass and deep as pools and he can’t look away.

Those green eyes widen, startled; a flash of understanding passes through them and suddenly they flare up, the space between the two men shrinking suddenly and crackling with electricity. 

James tears his gaze away, forcing himself not to gasp for breath. 

 _How can you tell when you fancy someone?_ he’d asked his mother once, when he was small—had dared to ask her, rather, for she was not one to invite confidences. 

She’d sighed, as she always did when he asked a difficult question, which in those days was much too often. _Oh, James. I suppose you just_ know _._

But James had never “just known” anything in his life, not then and not now. Consequently, he’d always felt he was doing it wrong, the business of fancying someone, and certainly all his attempts had failed rather spectacularly—a couple of girls from university, who’d pursued him eagerly and dropped him soon after; Fiona from the station, who’d considered her career more important than him; Scarlett Mortmaigne, who’d turned out to be an accomplice to murder; and he refuses to even think about Zoe-who-was-really-Feordocha. He has felt at times that he is hovering around something, some massive truth that bends his life towards it like gravity warps space, some centering _reason_ that nothing works out, and that if he thinks about it enough he could get to the bottom of it—but for reasons both complicated and painful, and as unacknowledged as the thing itself, he doesn’t think about it. 

Here it is, though, right in front of him, and for once James Hathaway _just knows_.

“Ah, chicken’s got to be done by now,” Lewis says brightly, oblivious to the searing heat passing between his son and his sergeant, and to the fact that James’ entire existence has just been turned inside out like a glove. 

“I’ll pour the wine,” Mark says, smiling at James, and James feels a rush of terror so strong he’s surprised it doesn’t sweep him right out the door.

 

 

 

“Half Dome at sunset,” Mark says fifteen minutes later, spooning potatoes onto his plate. “In Yosemite National Park, in California. Definitely the most spectacular thing I saw in the States.” He takes a bite, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, and James has to force himself not to look awkwardly away. “It’s this giant dome of rock, but it looks like it’s been cut in half—well, obviously,” he laughs. “And at sunset, it got all orange and—and glow-y…” He gives a sheepish grin. “Not much of a poet, I’m afraid. Bet that’s more your sort of thing,” he says to James, just a hint of flirtation in his eyes. 

James immediately shakes his head. “No.” 

There’s a pause, in which James wishes he had the power to melt into the floor. Or disintegrate. Or turn invisible. Basically, to be anywhere but here. 

“Is that all you were up to, then?” Lewis says to his son, half-chiding, half-amused. “Gallivanting around the wilderness for two years?” 

For a split second, Mark looks wary, but then he relaxes. “Ha. No, Dad, I spent six whole months in L.A., actually. A friend has a recording studio out there, I did some work for him. Mind you, I spent about as much time fixing their plumbing as anything to do with the music, but still.” 

“Hathaway’s a musician, you know,” Lewis remarks. 

James winces. “Not really.” 

“Ah, lovely, what sort of music?” Mark asks, looking genuinely interested. 

 _Lovely._ James’ heart skips a beat. He can barely meet Mark’s eyes. “World music,” he says. “It’s, er, like…” He fumbles for words. 

“No, yeah, I know it! That’s cool, James, what sort of instrument do you play? Something international, like, I dunno, the ocarina or the mandolin…?” 

“Just the guitar,” James mutters. Maybe if he acts churlish enough Mark will stop looking at him with those sparkling green eyes, full of interest and attraction and _hope_ , and James can barricade himself in his flat and never have to think about men or sexuality or his _goddamn past_ ever again. 

Because that’s what this comes down to: his past. And his past, frankly, is Will McEwan. His childhood best friend, whom he laughed at for being gay when they were fourteen and preached at for the same when they were in their twenties and who killed himself two years ago, for the same reason again. After that—after what James did to Will—he _cannot_ be gay. 

 _Or else that’s why you did what you did_ , James’ treacherous mind remarks. _Because there was more at stake for you than Will’s life alone, and you were a coward and couldn’t see it. Or wouldn’t._

He pushes that thought roughly aside. 

“What sort of music did they do at your friend’s studio, Mark?” Lewis asks. 

“Oh,” Mark laughs, “mostly heavy metal, I’m afraid. Thought I’d go deaf after awhile. But I escaped up the coast…god, San Francisco, I can’t even describe it, it’s incredible…”

And he rambles on about his travels, Lewis interjecting with sincere questions and teasing comments, and James sits at the table feeling seasick. Mark smiles at him from time to time, a little shyly, and each time James feels a sudden burst of joy that burns out into a fizz of unhappiness and fear. He wants nothing more than to be alone with his books—he’s yearning to bury himself in their pages, to search for answers in the steady black type—except he also wants to reach out and slide his finger gently along Mark’s cheekbone, just below his light eyelashes. 

 _Christ_ , he thinks, and it’s half a curse, half a prayer. 

When dinner ends, Mark offers to do the dishes. “James and I can manage,” he says. “You cooked, Dad, don’t worry about it. Right, James?” 

Twitting Lewis is such second nature to James by now that the words come out of his mouth without conscious thought. “I do all his paperwork—might as well add dishes to the list.”

Mark grins, and then he’s grinning at James, and then James is grinning back, and a spark leaps between them that nearly blows James’ breath straight out of his chest. 

“I’ll wash, you dry?” Mark asks. 

James manages a nod. They station themselves at the sink and Lewis leans back in his chair, pulling at his wine and chattering on amiably about football. Mark keeps up his end of the conversation, but James is silent, sliding the towel over the plates and trying not let his fingers brush against Mark’s as they pass the dishes between them. It’s a task that requires a certain degree of proximity, doing dishes, but surely not quite as much as Mark seems to think. His shoulders are nearly brushing against James’. And James’ lungs are only half working. 

“Aha!” Lewis says suddenly, after a lull in the conversation. “I know what’s next. I haven’t looked at the old photo albums in ages.” 

Mark groans. “Oh, Dad, no. I’m sure there’s pictures in there from when Lyn dressed me up in her old ballet clothes. Not to mention the usual naked baby photos. Please spare me, at least in front of James.” 

“Eh, you looked good in a tutu,” Lewis replies imperturbably. “No escaping this one, lad.” 

He hurries off to his study. Mark chuckles softly, handing over a Dutch oven. 

“He’s mellowed out a bit, these past few years. Is that your doing?” 

James shakes his head. “I don’t know. Has he?” 

“I think so. A decade ago he’d have been down my throat all evening about wasting my life. Ah, we’re out of dish soap. I wonder where…” 

James swings open the cupboard below the sink and takes out a new bottle. Mark raises his eyebrows. 

“You know your way around, then. Are you here a lot?”

“No. Well. Yes. Maybe, sometimes…” _Breathe, James_ , he tells himself with cold fury. “When we’re working long cases, sometimes I kip here. Or him at my place. Easier that way.” 

Mark nods. “I…hope you’ll be here again, this week.” He smiles at James, his glass-green eyes just a bit hesitant. “I’d like to see you again.” 

James’ heart knocks against his chest like it’s trying to make a run for it. “I…” They stare at each other for a long moment. 

“You’ve got soap on your sleeve,” Mark says suddenly, reaching forward to brush it off. “There.” 

His hand lingers on James’ wrist, warm and solid and lovely and _terrifying._ Lewis bangs back into the room and James pulls away, head swimming, face hot. 

“Here we are. Who’s for more wine?” 

“I er, actually, sir, I’d better be going,” James says, already heading for the door. 

Lewis looks surprised. “Oh? But…” 

“I, er. Things to do. Sorry.” 

“Well, okay,” Lewis says doubtfully. “If you say so.” 

“Thanks for coming, James,” Mark cuts in. “It’s been a pleasure.” He holds out his hand, and James has no choice but to take it. “Hope to see you again soon.” 

He squeezes James’ fingers and then lets go. In the next second, James is out the door, but he can still feel Mark’s hand in his, like an echo, or a ghost. 

For a moment James wishes with all his heart that he hadn’t any other ghosts to trouble him.

 

 

 

He doesn’t go to bed. At two in the morning, he’s sitting on his sofa, still fully dressed, reading Kierkegaard. 

Kierkegaard, because he has done the obvious wrestling already—years before, when he left the seminary. _Thou shalt not lie with a man as with a woman_. Leviticus, and Sodom and Gomorrah, and anything else he’d thought might shed light on whether Will’s suffering was not in fact as needless as it was beginning to seem. He’d prayed for hours, knees sore and cold, and gone through confessions that had ripped him to shreds. He’d lost his conviction that Will and those like him were sinners, but along the way he’d lost everything else, too—up to and including his certainty in the existence of God Himself. 

So he’s reading Kierkegaard, because Kierkegaard wrote that the only true believers are the ones with doubts. 

James leans his head against the back of the sofa, exhausted. Mark’s face swims before his eyes, bright and open and so, so enticing. He starts to drift to sleep, and the expectant expression on Lewis’ son’s face melts into Will McEwan’s at fourteen, afraid and hesitant and, underneath it all, hopeful: _James, I…I think I’m gay._

James starts awake, heart pounding. He presses his forehead to the open page of the book and breathes deeply, then begins to read again, taking comfort in the small, solid words. 

 _Faith simply means: What I am seeking is not here, and for that very reason I believe it. Faith expressly signifies the deep, strong, blessed restlessness that drives the believer so that he cannot settle down at rest in this world._

James hasn’t been at rest in the world for a very long time.

 

 

 

He’s unusually quiet at work the next day, he knows, even for him. But Lewis doesn’t seem to notice, wrapped up as he is in singing Mark’s praises. It turns out his son can cook after all—he made Lewis eggs Benedict that morning, apparently, with homemade hollandaise sauce. He did something impressive to Lewis’ car that goes right over James’ head, and fixed a leaky pipe in the bathroom that Lewis had been putting off dealing with because of his bad back. He’s also thrown out all of Lewis’ frozen dinners and stocked his fridge with vegetables. 

If it weren’t so clear that Lewis has no idea what passed between the two younger men at dinner the night before, James would almost think he were listing all of Mark’s good qualities for his own consideration. But Lewis is obviously just happy to have him home. 

James manages to listen to all of this without having some sort of breakdown, though by the end of the day he’s in desperate need of a drink. Which is why it’s ironic that Lewis’ offer of a pint at the pub sends a cold wash of panic down his spine. 

“Oh. Just you, or…” 

“No, no, Mark’ll be there, of course. He asked after you specifically. Glad you two hit it off.” 

James blanches. “Ah. Oh, you know what, I’ve just remembered—I’ve got plans.” 

Lewis raises his eyebrows, surprised. “Really? Plans? You?” 

James attempts to look offended. “Yes, sir, I do occasionally have plans.” 

“Right, yes, of course. Sorry, lad,” Lewis says apologetically. “Well, maybe another night, then.” 

James nods as Lewis hurries off, thinking privately that the combination of Mark and alcohol and low lighting and whatever sexual or existential crisis he’s going through right now is about as volatile and disastrous as the vinegar-and-baking-soda volcano he and Will made when they were ten, the one that shot foam a foot in the air, white liquid that cascaded down the table and ruined the carpet and landed them both in a whole lot of trouble. 

Of course, James thinks, little did they know how much worse was the trouble that still lay ahead.

 

 

 

He turns down Lewis’ offer of a pint again the next day, again on the pretext of having “plans,” and though Lewis doesn’t argue, James can feel his eyes, speculative if not downright skeptical, on the back of his neck as he heads to his car. 

The day after that, Mark shows up at the station. He’s leaning on his dad’s car, waiting, and James catches his eye before he can duck back inside. 

“Hey,” Mark says, a smile lighting up his face. “How’s it going?” 

“Fine, yeah, it’s fine.” James breathes in, suddenly dizzy, and clutches the piece of paper he’s been carrying around in his pocket, the one that reads, _True instruction is this: to learn to wish that each thing should come to pass as it does._ It’s Epictetus, because the days when he carried scripture verses in his pockets are long gone. But he needed something to keep him anchored. 

“Dad and I are going to try the new Indian place that’s just opened up, the one by his flat. Care to join us?” 

“I…” 

“Mark!” Lewis hurries down the front steps. “Everything all right? I thought we were meeting at the restaurant.” 

“We were, yeah, just thought I’d stop by. See the old station again.” But he’s looking at James as he says it, head cocked invitingly. It’s charming, and James suppresses a shudder. 

“Didn’t know you’d want to,” Lewis says, a little cautious now. 

Mark shrugs. “I have some good memories of the place, you know. A nice lady sergeant gave me a chocolate lolly one time, when I was about eight. It was a good day.” 

It takes a moment for Lewis to realize Mark is teasing. He lets out a startled laugh, more like a yelp, really, and turns to James, shaking his head. 

“This one. I dunno, I really don’t. Anyway, what do you say, Hathaway? Come have dinner with us?” 

They’re both looking at him expectantly now, both so welcoming and optimistic, and James feels a bit of a lout for wiping the smiles off their faces. But he can’t do it, he really can’t. 

“Sorry, sir, I’ve got—” 

“Don’t say ‘plans,’ Hathaway, for God’s sake,” Lewis breaks in. “What on earth’s the matter?” 

James feels a thin sheen of sweat break out on his forehead. “No, really, it’s, erm, emergency—band practice. Sort of last-minute…” 

“Emergency _band practice?_ ” his inspector repeats incredulously. The smile is slipping from Mark’s face, and James tries not to look at him. “What’s that when it’s at home?” 

“Perhaps there’s an emergency concert coming up?” Mark cuts in quietly. There’s a different question in his eyes, one that James is finding it difficult to ignore and even harder not to bend to. 

“I…” He swallows, fingering the paper in his pocket. “Yes, actually.” 

“Maybe we could come to it?” Mark asks, raising his chin just a fraction. For a second, he looks exactly like his father. 

James curses himself with all his might. “No, I…sorry, it’s…private, actually. A wedding.” 

He starts backing away, towards his car, and pretends very hard that the disappointment on Mark’s face isn’t causing all his insides to curl up like flower petals in too-hot sun. 

“An _emergency_ wedding?” Lewis demands. “Hathaway—”

But James is already in his car, starting the engine, drowning out Lewis’ voice with his own shuddering breaths.

 

 

 

He knows he’s in for it when he comes to work the next morning, so he’s unsurprised when Lewis drags a chair in front of his desk and sits himself down in, staring James straight in the face. 

“Okay, Hathaway. Time to tell me what’s going on. Are you avoiding me, or Mark, or the pair of us?” 

James rearranges some paperwork, not meeting his inspector’s eyes. “I’m not avoiding anyone, sir.” 

“Don’t lie to me, man. What happened? Did Mark—” He hesitates. “Did Mark say something to you? He’s a bit—well, he used to be a bit thoughtless, got him into trouble sometimes. Truth is, thought he was past that. But he means well, I promise you.” 

James shakes his head vehemently, momentarily forgetting to deny that anything is wrong in his haste to avoid causing friction between Lewis and his son. “No, nothing like that, sir. Really.” 

Lewis’ face lapses into bewilderment. “Then what? I just don’t understand.” 

James shakes his head. “I told you, everything’s fine, sir.” 

Lewis looks annoyed, and then a dogged expression appears on his face that James recognizes with a sinking feeling. He’s in trouble now. 

“All right then,” Lewis says, “if there’s nothing wrong, come to dinner this weekend. Lyn and her partner will be down, and I’d like you to join us.” 

The last thing James needs right now, the very last thing, is more Lewises. “Sir, it’s…that’s very kind of you, but I don’t want to intrude on your time with you family.” 

Lewis stares at him for a moment, and then his face softens, comprehension—if misplaced—slowly dawning. “Oh, lad. Is that what this is about?” 

James swallows. “I…” 

“Ach, I should have seen it before. James, you’re not intruding. You’re more than welcome. Look, I—I know you haven’t got much in the way of family, and for once it seems I’ve got more than enough to go around. Consider yourself an honorary Lewis for the weekend, if you like. Please.”

To his shock, James’ throat is tightening, and his eyes are growing damp. “Sir.” He takes a breath. There’s not a chance he can say no now. “Thank you, sir, that would be very nice.” 

Lewis claps him on the shoulder, face brightening. “Good lad. Saturday all right?” James nods. “And it’ll be Robbie, then, okay?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Lewis smiles. “We’ll make a Lewis out of you yet, James Hathaway.” 

James sincerely doubts that Lewis has any idea of exactly what he’s just suggested.

 

 

 

James goes back to the chapel where Will McEwan committed suicide. 

He sits in a pew, the room cold and deserted, and stares at the altar where Will purposely spattered his own blood, in an arc of deep red that James has never quite been able to purge from his nightmares. Outside, the sky is clear and dark, the grass damp, the smell of earth clean and thick in the air. It’s a lovelier night, James thinks, than he deserves ever to experience again. 

He knows Lewis would say he’s being too hard on himself. That it wasn’t his fault Will killed himself, that the horrible group called the Garden, with their mission to “reform” all homosexuals, was much more to blame. That Will’s father, intolerant and brash, had infinitely more responsibility for his son’s life, and much more share in its end. That James was young and stupid and that he’s a better man now, that he became a better man by choice, through suffering and questioning and sacrifice, as soon as he’d realized he was wrong. 

But James knows it doesn’t matter. It might not have been all his fault that Will died—but James had failed to save him nonetheless. 

And why, exactly, had he failed? Now, finally, the answer seemed to be staring in the face. 

He’d laughed at Will because he’d been too afraid to love him. 

That’s what it would mean, if James were gay. That the whole time he was destroying his best friend’s life, it was because he was too afraid to admit that he was in the same boat. 

And, James thinks, leaning his elbows against the pew in front of him and resting his head in his hands, if he didn’t kiss Will, and should have, he’s lost the right to kiss anyone else. 

He pulls out the kneeler and, rather self-consciously, sinks to his knees. He closes his eyes, willing the prayer to come, searching for that sense of peace and rightness he used to have whenever he spoke to God. 

But there’s only empty air and cold stone and an altar that was once stained with blood, not the blood of Christ but of a good and mortal man—so James opens his eyes, and stands, and walks away.

 

 

 

“James!” Lyn opens the door of Lewis’ flat, smiling widely, brown hair curling around the face that so resembles her father’s. “It’s so good to see you again!” To his vast surprise, she pulls him into a hug. “You don’t look a bit changed—except for the hair, it’s longer, isn’t it?” 

James blinks. “Erm, yeah. You look the same as well, Lyn—only a bit bigger.” Despite the fact that he’s barely slept and a thick curl of dread has taken up permanent residence in his gut, he can’t help giving her a cheeky grin. He’s always liked Lyn. 

“Hey, now, be kind,” she says, placing a hand on her round belly. “I’m not as big yet as I’m going to be, they tell me.” 

Another face appears in the doorway, wearing a friendly grin. “You remember my partner Tim,” Lyn says. 

“Yeah, of course. Hello.” 

Tim stretches out a hand and pumps James’ with startling enthusiasm. “Good to see you again, mate! You’re looking well.” 

“Thanks,” James says, beginning to suspect that all this excessive friendliness has its origins in a certain over-paternal detective inspector. “You too.” 

“Come in, come in,” Lyn says, ushering him into the flat. “Have some wine. I can’t, so please, do it in my place!” 

“Hello, James,” Lewis calls from the stove. He’s wearing, of all things, an apron, and stirring a big steaming pot. James feels rather wrong-footed, like he’s stepped into some alternate dimension. “Take his coat, will you, Lyn? Just toss it anywhere, there’s a good lass. Now, where’s Mark? He said he’d help me with this next bit, I haven’t the faintest idea how to do it meself…” 

James allows himself to be chivvied to the sofa and handed a glass of wine, which he sips absently, torn between surprise at this frankly unprecedented picture of Robbie Lewis, family man, and the churning anxiety that’s roiling around in his stomach as he waits for Mark to appear. He’s still holding out hope that he can get through dinner without stomping on anybody’s heart, his own included, but it’s admittedly a faint hope at best. Mark’s been haunting his dreams with almost as much frequency as Will these days. 

But when Mark appears, he doesn’t make any movement toward James, other than a friendly wave, and he and Lyn and Lewis exchange good-spirited reminiscences all through the meal, leaving him and Tim to sit back and chime in with the occasional comment. James has never heard Lewis talk about Val at such length, and with so little grief in his eyes. It’s amazing what a difference having his family home can make. 

So it’s with a false sense of security that he retires to the sitting room with the rest of them, wineglass in hand, sinking quietly into an armchair and listening while everybody else talks. But as Lyn wraps up a story about the time she put dish soap in her mother’s shampoo, Mark very deliberately catches his eye. His stomach sinks like a stone. 

“I’m going out for a cigarette,” Mark says, getting to his feet. “James, you smoke?” 

“Yes, he does,” Lewis says reprovingly. “And he knows better, too. So do you, for that matter.” 

“Alas, some vices are difficult to shake,” Mark replies lightly. “Care to join me, James?”

James can’t refuse without being rude, and really, it was inevitable that this moment would come, anyway. He nods, standing, and follows Mark to the door with a fatalistic sense of impending doom. 

“Oi, not too close to the flat, you two, I don’t want to smell it when I open the windows,” Lewis says. 

“Yes, Dad,” they both reply, James lapsing into automatic sarcasm, and then they catch each other’s eye, falling silent. It occurs to James that this might be harder even than he’d thought. 

The air is chilly tonight, but fresh and clean. Mark lights a cigarette, then brings the flame of his lighter up to the end of James’. He leans against a low wall, taking a long drag, and then crosses his ankles, staring down the road at nothing. 

“I’ve been trying to see you, you know,” he says. “Getting Dad to ask you to the pub. Showing up at the station. You must have noticed.” 

James keeps his eyes straight ahead, too. “I’m sorry. I’ve been—” 

“Busy, yeah. He said.” Mark taps his cigarette against the bricks, scattering ash at his feet. “But let’s be honest here, for a moment. If we can manage it. You’ve been avoiding me.” 

James doesn’t answer. But his silence, it seems, is enough of a reply. 

“Right. Thought so. And at first,” Mark says, his tone becoming determinedly conversational, “I thought it was because you were a bit of a prat.” 

Startled, James looks at him. 

“Well, you know,” Mark continues casually, taking a small drag at his cigarette, “I never went to uni. And I don’t have much to show for my life, up to now. Mind you, I’ve been happy—I’m not ashamed. But I thought, well, maybe he’s just too good for all that.” 

James is stung into speech. “I never meant—” 

“I know, I know.” Mark waves him off. “Because then I realized I was the one being the prat. My dad’s got even less time for all that posher-than-thou rubbish, and he’s never had a bad word to say about you. Other than that you don’t talk enough, maybe.” Mark blows smoke out his mouth. “I can see where he’s coming from on that one. I don’t mind, honestly, though I do think it means I’ll have to keep on doing the talking, here, doesn’t it?” 

James pulls on his cigarette, uncertain how to respond. 

“Yep. Thought so. All right, well, back on track. Then I thought, okay, maybe it’s because you’re his boss’ son. Might be a bit of awkwardness there. I could see it being a complicated position—you flirting with anyone related to Robbie Lewis.” 

James’ heart begins, absurdly, to beat at breakneck speed. As if he didn’t already know where this was going. But to hear Mark say it so openly—it sends the blood rushing to his face. 

“Dad thinks it’s some family thing,” Mark says reflectively. “He says—well, that you don’t have much family of your own, and that all this is making you wish you did. Or making you feel like you don’t fit in. He told us all to be extra welcoming of you tonight, by the way.” 

“I know,” James says, looking down at his knees. “He’s…a very kind man, your father.”

“Yes, he is,” Mark says, his tone turning almost wistful for a moment. “But he’s only partly right, isn’t he?” He looks at James now, his green eyes steady, his face growing, for the first time, a little bit hesitant. “There’s something else going on, isn’t there? Because, see…hang on, let me just…try something…” 

He moves his hand towards James’, reaching with his sun-browned fingers for James’ pale ones. Instinctively, James jerks away, folding his hands in his lap. 

“Yeah,” Mark says, resignation coloring his voice. “See, you flinch whenever I come near you. You’re afraid. Of me, or of this, or maybe…of yourself.” 

He hesitates again, and James has an overwhelming desire to curl up against his broad chest, till they are safe from the things that are tearing them both to bits. But those things are inside James, not out in the world, and getting close to Mark would only make them stronger. 

“This is just a guess,” Mark says tentatively. “But are you maybe…not gay?” 

It’s such a _nice_ way to put it—so respectful of James’ own experience, his own perspective. Not _do you not know you’re gay_ or even _are you not out._ It leaves him an opening, if he wants to take it—lets him be as deeply in denial as he wants. Maybe it’s this that makes James answer honestly. 

“I don’t know what I am,” he says, his voice coming out thin and barely audible. Mark says nothing, only watches with quiet patience, and James sighs. 

“When I was younger,” he says with difficulty, because speaking about this is like slicing open his own chest, “there was this boy.” 

To his shock, Mark lets out a bark of laughter. “Oh, yes. Isn’t there always?” 

James looks at him, stunned. The thought that his experience was not totally unique, that there are other Will McEwans out there, other traitorous friends and broken friendships, has never once occurred to him. “Is there?” he asks. 

“Well, there certainly was for me,” Mark says, tossing his cigarette on the ground and leaning back. “Theodore Brackett. Spent six months snogging each other senseless in broom closets, then one day I turn around and he’s got a girlfriend. Said I had just been a ‘placeholder.’ Fair broke my heart, he did.” 

James’ own heart sinks. “Oh,” he says, and is quiet for a minute. “I have to say, if I resemble anyone in that story, it’s your friend. Not that the scenario was identical, but…” He stares at the ground, and hears his voice grow bitter. “If anyone was breaking hearts, it was me.” 

Mark is quiet. Eventually, James risks a look at him; but instead of disgust, he sees only quiet understanding. 

“Did you kiss him?” Mark asks. 

Throat tight, James shakes his head. 

“Should you have?” 

He’s Inspector Robbie Lewis’ son, through and through—getting straight to the heart of the matter. 

“I’m beginning to think so,” James admits, and the confession is as hard and painful as anything he’s ever told a priest. 

There’s a long silence. Mark fidgets slightly, then looks up, evidently steeling himself, and takes a breath. “Have you ever kissed a man, James?” he asks. 

“No,” James whispers. 

“Would you like to?” 

Mark is beautiful in the darkening light, his broad face open and kind, his hair glowing as the sun sinks. He leans forward, tentative and daring all at once, and it would be so easy, so very easy, for James to close the gap between him. 

He almost does it. And then Will’s face blooms before his eyes, accusing and sorrowful and angry, and his staggers backwards, taking in a long, shuddering breath. 

“James—" 

“I can’t,” he gasps out. “I—I can’t.” 

He whirls back inside, grabbing blindly for his coat, barely aware of the shocked eyes turning his way. 

“I have to go,” he manages. “Sorry, I—” 

“Oh, James, please stay,” Lyn says, rising to her feet. “There’s still dessert—” 

“I can’t.” He turns back to the still-open door.

 Lewis’ voice calls out, bewildered and exasperated. “James!”

But James is already striding to his car, not turning to look at Mark, who, thank God, remains silent. He slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine, not bothering with his seatbelt, his coat in a ball on his lap. He drives home, hands shaking all the way.

 

 

 

The next hour passes in a blur. He doesn’t know how many glasses of whisky he’s gone through, slumped on his sofa, books of theology and philosophy and ethics strewn across the floor. His head is pounding, nightmarish images passing before his open eyes, snatches of thought and memory that won’t leave him alone. He’s miserable, and glad of it. 

The door bursts open. He lurches upwards, the room reeling, vaguely regretting that he’s too much of a mess to put up a fight. But it’s only Robbie Lewis. 

“Sir!” he says, belatedly. “What—what are you doing here?” 

“Sorting you out,” Lewis says grimly. He shuts the door behind him, then picks up the whiskey bottle, putting it beyond James’ reach. He folds himself into an armchair, solid and heavy and clearly not going anywhere anytime soon. “Now. Out with it.” 

James does his best to look alert, and fails miserably. “Everything’s fine, sir.” 

Lewis snorts. “Don’t give me that. I haven’t seen you like this since…” He hesitates. “Since the Will McEwan case.” 

James stares at him, stunned. He’s got there in one go. “Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis, everyone,” he murmurs. How on earth does the man do it? 

Lewis looks startled. Then his hackles rise. “Is _that_ what this is about? Has someone from back then been harassing you, Hathaway? Because if they have, I can march them right down to the station—” 

“No,” James says, squeezing his eyes shut. “No. I just…I’ve just been thinking about it, that’s all.”

A furrow appears in Lewis’ brow. “But that was years ago, man. Why have you been thinking about it _now_?” James doesn’t answer. “Or maybe more to the point,” Lewis amends, eyes widening, “ _what_ have you been thinking about it?” 

James watches him through his eyelashes, wondering with vague, distant interest what he’s going to say next. 

“All right,” Lewis utters finally. “Okay. I’m going to ask you something, and if you tell me it’s none of my business or I’m way off the mark, I’ll back right off.” 

He takes a deep breath. James waits. 

“Was there another reason you left seminary?”

“Besides the fact that I was watching my childhood best friend’s life disintegrate before my eyes, largely due to advice I’d given him, you mean?” he can’t help but bite out. 

“Yes,” Lewis says evenly. “Other than that.” 

James deflates, all the fight going right out of him. He feels terribly, terribly weary, and in over his head, and unable to prevaricate any longer. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. 

Lewis puffs up indignantly, not understanding that he’s finally being told the truth. “You don’t know? How on earth do you not know a thing like that?” 

“Because I wasn’t thinking about it,” James answers, rubbing a hand across his face. 

Lewis lets out a sound like air escaping from a tire. “Bollocks. You’re telling me you, James Hathaway, weren’t _thinking_ when you made one of the biggest decisions of your life?” 

“I didn’t say I wasn’t thinking,” James corrects wearily. “Of course I was thinking. I was thinking about Leviticus and Paul’s letters to the Romans and Vatican II and Jonathan and David and Plato’s theory of the sexes and whether or not God even exists and I was thinking about _Will_. Basically, I was thinking about everything except…” 

“Except yourself,” Lewis finishes. He looks weary, too, but no longer skeptical. “All right, lad. All right.” 

There’s a long pause, and then Lewis’ expression turns speculative again. “And what about now?” 

James just looks at him miserably. 

“Oh, James.” Lewis shakes his head. “Surely you don’t need a fuddy-duddy, working-class copper from Newcastle to tell you, a bright young Cambridge lad, that it’s okay to be gay.” 

James rubs his temples. “Don’t make assumptions about the open-mindedness of Cambridge,” he mutters. “And it isn’t…it’s not that simple.” 

Lewis sighs. “I think it is, this time. Look, James…” He spreads his hands, thinking. “Okay. I wasn’t going to say this, because I haven’t cleared it with him first, but…I’m pretty sure Mark is, well, maybe he wouldn’t say _gay_ , but I know he’s had, you know, _things_ with men. Not that he talks about it with me—or about women, mind you—I think nobody’s lasted long enough to be worth talking about, really. But, anyway, point is—well, if it matters, and I know it probably doesn’t, much, but— _I_ don’t mind your being gay. Doesn’t make a bit of difference to me.” 

Bless his heart, James thinks fervently, bless his simple, honest heart. “Thank you, sir. But…” 

“It’s Robbie, tonight,” Lewis corrects him. “And—damn it, lad, don’t do this to yourself. You’re much to smart for this. Listen, I know, why don’t you talk to Mark? I’m sure he’d be happy to help with whatever it is that’s troubling you. Might be good for you to talk to someone who understands. You could have coffee, a drink—” 

“Robbie Lewis,” James says, because this is just _too much_ , “you are simultaneously the smartest and most idiotic man I have ever known.” 

Lewis looks offended. “What on earth’s that supposed to mean?” 

James just looks at him, and waits for him to understand. 

After a long moment, Lewis’ face goes blank with shock. He shakes his head, slow at first, then fast. “No. You don’t mean…” 

James nods. 

“But…” Lewis blinks, twice, quite hard. Then he picks up the whiskey bottle and pours himself a glass. He finishes it off in one gulp. 

“But you’ve only just met him!” he bursts out. 

James squirms guiltily. “Nothing’s happened yet, sir, I promise.” 

Lewis’ eyes go wide, perhaps at the thought of what exactly might “happen.” He pours another glass of whiskey and drinks it down. Then he closes his eyes, rubbing his hand across his forehead. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” James whispers. 

Lewis opens his eyes. “Ah, James.” He lets out a long breath. “I can’t imagine what it’s like in that head of yours.” He massages the back of his neck with his hand. “You look done in.” 

It’s probably true. James feels done in, wrung out, lack of sleep and the emotional fallout from the past week having twisted his body like a wet rag till he was limp and aching. He finds he can only murmur something inarticulate in response. 

“What you need,” Lewis says firmly, “is a good night’s rest.” He stands, looking suddenly every inch the imperious father. “To bed with you.” 

“Sir…” But James doesn’t have the strength to protest as Lewis leads him by the arm into his darkened bedroom, sliding his shoes off his feet and instructing him to get under the blankets. James only manages to get halfway in by the time Lewis comes back from the bathroom with a glass of water and a couple paracetamol tablets. 

“Take these,” he says, placing them in James’ hands. “They’ll help.” 

James obeys. Lewis takes the glass away, then tugs the blankets up to James’ chin. He stands over him for a moment, a complicated expression on his face that James couldn’t begin to decipher even if he were awake and sober, and then, with a touch so light James almost thinks he imagines it, he smoothes James’ hair across his forehead. 

“Sleep tight, lad,” he says, and James feels himself drifting away.

 

 

 

James awakens with a blinding headache, the sun streaming through the gap in his curtains. He winces, dragging himself to a sitting position, and wonders briefly why he feels as though it’s the morning after the apocalypse. 

Then it all comes crashing in. His conversation with Mark, and then, worse still, his talk with Lewis. In which he’d taken up time Lewis should have been spending with his family, made a maudlin confession without maintaining a shred of dignity, and basically told the inspector that he’s in love with his son. 

James moans, burying his face in his hands. He breathes in deeply, catching a whiff of stale alcohol on his crumpled clothes, sweat, cigarette smoke, bacon… 

His eyes fly open. Sure enough, there’s a band of light beneath his door, and he can hear the faint sounds of hissing and popping from the kitchen. He feels, if possible, even worse—there’s no doubt in his mind who’s in there cooking him breakfast. Robbie Lewis is, quite frankly, the closest thing he’s ever met to a living, breathing saint. 

James lets out a dark chuckle at the thought of what certain priests he’d known would have to say to that. Grimacing, he swings himself out of bed, staggering over to the mirror. He is, unsurprisingly, a wreck. He goes into the bathroom and splashes water on his face, trying not to look too closely at the bags under his eyes and the faint growth of stubble on his chin. He’ll deal with that later. For now, he merely slips into fresh clothes, jeans and an old T-shirt, and, with a deep breath that does little to buck up his courage, pads barefooted out into the kitchen. 

Lewis is standing at the stove, spatula in hand, frying eggs and bacon. The scent of strong coffee hits James’ nose, sharp and very welcome. Lewis is still wearing the clothes he had on last night, and there’s a pile of blankets stacked neatly at the end of the sofa. James watches warily as Lewis flips a piece of bacon, then turns to look at him. 

“Morning, lad,” he says, and somehow, there’s not a hint of accusation or caution or anger on his face. James feels a warm flush of guilt; he doesn’t deserve this man. 

“You should have gone home to be with your family, sir,” he says. 

Lewis shrugs. “Couldn’t drive after two whiskeys, could I? Anyway, I phoned Lyn and she didn’t seem to mind. I think the kids had a good time catching up together.” 

James bites his lip. He wonders when the blow is going to fall. Surely Lewis is just biding his time before shouting at James, or telling him off, or just walking out. Trust him to make James breakfast first, though. 

“Eat,” says Lewis, echoing his thoughts. He puts a plate in front of James. “And have some coffee. Then we’ll talk.” 

James attempts a bite of eggs. It’s a struggle just to swallow. 

“On second thought,” Lewis says, sliding into the chair across from him, “maybe we’d better talk first, eh?” 

James nods, unable to meet his eyes. 

“Listen, James,” Lewis says, “I’ve been thinking.” He pauses, drumming his fingers pensively against the tabletop. “This week, having Mark home, and last night with Lyn—I’ve enjoyed it. Honestly, it’s the best I’ve felt in years. I’ve missed them, I’ve missed—family being around.” He takes a meditative sip of coffee. “I’m not exactly going to say no to having more of that, James. Consider your invitation extended indefinitely.” 

James’ head swings upwards, his eyes wide and astonished. “What invitation, sir?” 

“To be an honorary Lewis, of course,” the inspector says gruffly. “And it’s _Robbie_ , for God’s sake.” 

“Oh,” James breathes, head swimming. The sunlight pouring in the windows seems suddenly unearthly and golden, setting the breakfast-table alight, shining like the nebulas around halos in medieval artwork, sacred and hallowed. Something catches in James chest, like a latch clicking into place. “ _Oh_.” 

“Anyway,” Robbie continues, taking a sip of coffee as if he hasn’t just lit the world on fire, “you’re both grown men, you don’t need my permission.” 

He stands, stealing a piece of bacon from James’ plate. “Now. I have to be off—Lyn has persuaded me to go to _church_ with her. Can you imagine?” He shakes his head. “I must be getting soft in my old age.” 

James swallows, staring up at him. “Thank you, Robbie,” he says quietly.

“’Course, James,” Lewis answers. “Only,” he says, pointing his finger at James, “you figure out whatever’s going on with you, all right? I know you’re a bit unsteady right now, but don’t you hurt him, you hear?” 

“I won’t,” James promises, with all his heart. 

“Mind you,” Lewis says, swinging his coat around his shoulders, “I’m going to say the same thing to him.” 

Lewis winks at him, then leaves. James stares after his inspector, mouth open, feeling as though the world has just turned upside-down. Then he eats his breakfast, because Lewis made it for him, and at the moment it seems as holy as any sacrament.

 

 

 

Once he’s fed, and cleaned up, and smells rather better than he did before, he goes over to his bookshelf and pulls down a slim volume of poetry.

It’s poetry he needs now—not philosophy, not theology. Not a theoretical essay, not a sermon. Just words of pain and beauty and hope, words that ask nothing of him but to listen and to feel, words that somehow delve deeper than any others into the heart of life. 

 _In Memoriam_  is too long, and frequently sentimental, but it’s the story of a man who loves another man beyond reason and sense, and who loses the man, and grieves, and regrets, and finally gives his sorrow and his sadness and his love up to God. James doesn’t know if he can manage that last step, not as wholeheartedly and with such utter faith as Tennyson, but he can certainly try. 

The tears roll down his cheeks silently as he reads, and he doesn’t move to brush them away. The words blur before his eyes, and for the first time, in his heart of hearts, he acknowledges how deeply he loved Will, and how conflicted and anguished and half-hidden that love was, and how the failures and betrayals and driftings apart all sprang from the depth of the feelings between them. _I’m sorry_ , he whispers, _I’m sorry, Will_. 

And then he lets it all go. 

Because if there is a God—and in this moment, it almost seems possible—James is absolutely certain he failed in his duty to Him all those years ago, when he told Will that to love as he did was a sin. And he is equally certain that to deny himself that same sort of love now, out of guilt or shame or fear, would be an identical sort of failure. 

And if God does exist, James has no desire to fail Him yet again. 

He reads the words of Tennyson’s poem like they are the gospels, and feels that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be a sin or a betrayal to finally be happy. 

_Strange friend, past, present, and to be;_

_Loved deeper, darklier understood;_

_Behold, I dream a dream of good,_

_And mingle all the world with thee._

 

 

  

“He’s magnificent, isn’t he?” 

James considers as he surveys the massive skeleton, leaning back on the bench and taking in the smooth brown bones of a Tyrannosaurus Rex _._ Facetiously, more to hide his nerves than anything, he quotes the Book of Revelation in a portentous baritone. _“_ _And those who dwell on the earth, whose name has not been written in the book of life from the foundation of the world, will wonder when they see the beast, that he was and is not and will come.”_  

They’re sitting in the dinosaur room of the Oxford Museum of Natural History. It was Mark’s suggestion; he used to practically live here, he said, when he was a kid. James feels privileged just to be given this tiny glimpse into Mark’s past. 

Mark laughs. "Ha." He falls silent for a moment, then speaks again, quietly. “I always wanted to meet one.” 

“A dinosaur?” 

He nods. 

James raises his eyebrows. “But…the teeth.” 

Mark smiles. “Yes.” He’s silent for a moment. “I think that’s what I was looking for, you know. All those years wandering around the world.” 

James looks at him, his lovely green eyes, his muscled frame, his sun-browned skin. “Dinosaurs?” 

Mark nods, half-smiling. “All the impossible creatures, and all the impossible places.” 

“The Holy Grail,” James murmurs, understanding. “The Fountain of Life.” He looks again at the dinosaur, away from Mark, trying not to betray how much his next question matters. “Did you find them?” 

“No,” Mark confesses. “But I found some pretty amazing things anyway.” He rubs his hand against the wood of the bench, hesitating. “Tell me something, honestly?” 

James swallows, heart quickening. “All right.” 

“Is he lonely?” 

James blinks. “Oh.” He thinks of Lewis, his fridge full of frozen dinners, his slow, frustrated dance with Laura Hobson, the way he’ll fall silent sometimes, eyes suddenly fixed on a time and place from long ago. “Yes.” 

Mark sighs. “I thought so.” He looks sidelong at James. “You know,” he begins, with a little bit of difficulty, “those impossible things—I’m never going to find them. And that was the fun of it, for a long time. But now…I don’t know. I’m beginning to think maybe the possible ones are worth sticking around for.” 

James’ heart speeds to a gallop. 

“Listen to me,” Mark says, laughing a little. “I must be getting old.” 

“I know the feeling,” James replies truthfully. 

They fall silent. _Your turn to talk, James Hathaway,_ he tells himself, and takes a breath. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve been running away from you, this past week.” 

“Yes, you have,” Mark replies simply. 

“I’ve been—going through some things,” James says. “Which isn’t an excuse. I just mean…” He bites his lip. It’s difficult, so difficult sometimes, to simply keep the words coming out of his mouth. “I don’t have it all worked out. I still won’t talk enough. And I’m not…I’m not an easy man to know well.” 

Mark smiles. “Yes, so I’ve gathered.” 

James looks down swiftly, tugging at his trouser knees, smoothing them unnecessarily. 

“Oh, hey, no, James—James.” James looks up reluctantly. “Sorry. I was only teasing. For what it’s worth, I’m not an easy man to know well, either.” 

James swallows. He has to say it, all of it, right now, or he might never manage it. “The thing is,” he says, and breathes deeply, “I’ve never felt this way before. Not just—about a man. I mean—I’ve never—just _liked_ someone before, like this. Simply.” 

Mark looks half-amused, half in awe. “You call this simple? Goodness, James, I’m beginning to think my dad was right about you.” 

James thinks of Fiona from work, the web of shoulds-and-shouldn’ts surrounding them, her tendency to plunge in and then pull back and the way she cut it off so abruptly. He thinks of Scarlet Mortmaigne, the strands of childhood memories and wishes and lies that bound them together. He thinks of Zoe Kenneth, who loved Will, who James kissed because she’d loved Will and lost him and so had he. And he thinks of Will himself, all the secrets and the violence and the pain wrapped up in those feelings: even they had not been simple, for all that they had been deep. 

“I only mean,” he says, feeling as though he is poised on the edge of a cliff, “that I--well. I fancy you.” 

A broad smile spreads across Mark’s face. “Well,” he says softly, “I fancy you too.” 

James grips the bench hard, riotous joy and wild terror clashing within him, his mind for once unruly, disordered, overwhelmed by his heart. He looks at Mark, who is surveying him fondly, and as if, James thinks, he’s waiting for something.

“James,” Mark says softly, after a moment. “I’d very much like to kiss you now.” James’ stomach swoops, his eyes widening. “But I think this time, you’d better start it.” 

James takes a long breath. He nods. He wills himself to lean forward, and it’s so hard to close the gap between them, such a monumental task, and he almost doesn’t think he can do it. 

But then his lips touch Mark’s, and everything melts away. 

The kiss is soft and feather-light. Their lips move gently against each other, their breaths mingling, sweet and slow. Mark’s hand comes up to cradle James’ head, his fingers sliding through his hair. For an endless moment, they are revolving in space, breathless, floating amongst heavenly bodies in a vast celestial sphere. 

And then they break apart, and they’re sitting on a bench in front of a dinosaur skeleton, smiling at each other with eyes full of wonder. 

“I think I understand now what you mean by _simple_ ,” Mark whispers. 

James nods, feeling weightless with happiness—God, he’d never known he could be so happy. _I’m happy_ , he thinks, delighted, _I’m_ happy. 

He laughs. 

“What, what is it?” Mark asks, smiling back. 

“Nothing,” James says. “I’m just happy.” 

Mark’s smile widens, and he leans in again for another kiss. 

As James runs his fingers through Mark’s hair, warmth filling him from head to toe, Kierkegaard—of all things—floats through his head, unbidden but not, surprisingly, unwelcome.

 _What I really need is to get clear about what I must do, not what I must know, except insofar as knowledge must precede every act._ _What matters is to find a purpose, to see what it really is that God_ _wills that I shall do; the crucial thing is to find a truth which is truth for me._  

God may or may not exist, and James may be weak or strong, human or divine, or some impossible combination of both; but here, right now, the spark that’s passing between him and the man he’s falling in love with is nothing if not pure, clear truth.

**Author's Note:**

> Quote sources:
> 
> Kierkegaard, Soren. Upbuilding Discourse in Various Spirits, Hong 1993. Quoted in Wikipedia’s “Philosophy of SK”
> 
> Kierkegaard, Soren. Journal entry, Gilleleie (1 August 1835) Journals 1A. Quoted in Wikiquote.
> 
> Epictetus. Golden Sayings of Epictetus, trans. Hastings Crossley. Quoted in Wikiquote. 
> 
> Revelation 7:8. King James Bible.
> 
> Tennyson, In Memoriam. http://www.online-literature.com/donne/718/


End file.
